


What Doesn't Kill You

by Write_like_an_American



Series: Ravagers [3]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Guardians of the Galaxy - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bad Parenting, Bottom Kraglin, Bottom Yondu, Character Development, M/M, May Contain Nuts, Switching, a quick sequel for The One With The Hostile Takeover, and porn, casual child abuse courtesy of the Ravagers, mentions of past non-con, misunderstandings and miscommunication, will include world-building
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-04-07 19:17:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4274919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You can't fix everything, and you sure as hell can't change the past. But that doesn't mean Kraglin's not going to try.</p><p>Follow-up to The One With The Hostile Takeover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Hi folks~ Third multi-chapter fic in the gotg fandom. I am incapable of writing one-shots. Help me.**
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>  **This is set after the events of ‘The One With The Hostile Takeover’. If you want to include it in TRGTGL, it occurs somewhere between ‘Primitive R &R’ and ‘Terrans and Tabletops’ – I imagine Peter’s around nine. Mentions of past non-con but nothing explicit on that front. There is, however, explicit consensual sex, because I’m incapable of writing anything without it devolving (or evolving…?) into porn. I’ll mark relevant chapters as nsfw.**
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> **There’s also references to Ravager-style parenting – so the neglect and abuse of a minor.**
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> xoxo
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> ****  
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“So,” says Kraglin, determinedly studying the starchart. “My off-day’s comin’ up.” 

“Hm.” 

Kraglin sticks his hand into the heart of the three-dimensional hologram and swivels his wrist, flipping the whole thing on its head. ‘Up’ and ‘Down’ don’t mean much when you’re in a spaceship, after all. “Was thinkin’ about taking it on Gvargon. Gotta drop-off scheduled there next week, drugs for the local warlord…” He clears his throat; gets back on track. “Anyways. ‘Pparently they’ve got this whole bunch of natural hotsprings that’d put Xandar’s ta shame. S’all that volcanic activity, I guess.” 

“Sounds good.” 

“I mean, sure, Xandarian water’s not as likely to turn you into primordial soup if ya sit in it too long. And they don’t have none of them funky parasitic leeches. But heck, if you ain’t fussed about none of that, it’s best in the quadrant.” 

“Right.” Yondu’s bent over the table, scowling at the trade contract projected over the rusty interactive board. “Hey, what’s the going rate for Huffer nowadays?” Kraglin, pleased to be called upon to answer, puffs up in his jacket. 

“Eighty-five-K units for a half-tonne, sir.” 

The captain nods to himself, grumbling under his breath, and slashes a jagged blue nail over where his signature’s scrawled. “Thought so. De- _nied_. Alright, Kraglin – make a note, we ain’t running no Huffer through the Nova Blockade for nobody who can’t be bothered to fork out a quarter-cut for our troubles. Right?” 

Kraglin’s not got his pad on him, but a couple of years of being named official first mate (and unofficial fuckbuddy) has trained his memory enough that he doesn’t really need it. He just nods, and wonders how he’s supposed to angle the conversation back onto hotpools without sounding desperate. 

Because he’s not. Desperate, that is. It’s just… It’s been a month since The Incident, the one which no one ever talks about – heck, even Peter’s picked up from the general vibe that it’s not to be nattered about, although his resentful silence could as easily be in response to Kraglin and the rest of Commands’ dirty looks. 

Kraglin’s not looking to forgive him. Not just yet. 

Anyway. One month of taking the usual jobs, of dividing the fleet and sending them scurrying across the galaxy, pillaging stockpiles from Nova and Kree alike, hunting merchant-ships too brave or too in need of money to stay on the established empire trading routes, and smuggling any shit under the suns. One month, in which the only hint that Yondu’d been through anything out-of-the-ordinary were the stops by Doc’s bay late at night, and the silent drain on painkillers and healing-nanite booster gels. That’s petered off – thankfully. But it still gnaws on Kraglin, that he can only guess Yondu’s healed up because he’s been spying on the inventory distribution to his room’s medi-drawer, and not because – oh, he doesn’t know – because Yondu _told_ him. 

Because hell, Yondu ain’t _talked_ to him. Not about nothing at all. 

Add to that that this month is also one month in which Yondu hasn’t buzzed him on their private comm to ‘go over plans’, or dragged him off into the nearest random store-closet in between shifts, or – more importantly – said a fucking _word_ about the fact that Horde Captain Jakael Romago fucked over the Ravagers good, then fucked Yondu literally – and you might see why Kraglin might be a little… _nervous_. About Yondu. About Yondu and him. Together. 

Heck, it’s not like they’ve got a _relationship_ , or anything like that. Relationships are as good as strapping a canister of rocket fuel and a ‘please don’t shoot me’ sign to your ass before walking into a firefight, when you’re in their line of business. But… Kraglin’s ready to admit that they’ve got _something_. Even if it’s only the occasional shared drink or joke or orgasm, and a hint of mutual trust. That’s rare enough, among Ravagers. 

Now though, whatever that _something_ is, however they choose to define it… He can feel it crumbling around them. Disintegrating from under their feet. 

Will a day of lounging in a geothermic rockpool and bitching about swindling merchants-slash-Peter’s latest antics solve things? Probably not. But it’ll be a start. And right now, a start’s all Kraglin’s got. 

“You’re being awful quiet over there,” Yondu calls. Kraglin snaps back to the present. His hand is hovering in the hologram’s core, piercing the glittering lights like he’s parting a photonic ocean. He whips around, blinking at the space where he could’ve sworn the captain’d been standing – and finds him in the doorway, back turned and hands shoved in his pants pockets, one boot jamming open the door. “C’mon, I’m calling break. Been staring at these fucking contracts all day. Eyes feel like they’re about t’pop.” 

Kraglin shakes himself to life, yanking his hand free. The hologram shatters soundlessly. Fragments gush into the dusty crystal-lens above, like they’re being sucked into an upside-down whirlpool. “Nice image, sir,” he says, feeling out his own pockets in unconscious imitation and sauntering after him. “Menu’s soldier-slop though. I warn ya now.” 

Yondu glances over his shoulder at him, twisting to let Kraglin pass before pulling his boot back. The heavy iron door slams shut with a satisfying clang. “Whoopee. From that sloop we hit out past Knowhere?” 

Kraglin can’t _quite_ remember, but it’s his job to know anything and everything the captain doesn’t. He nods with what he hopes is a convincing degree of certainty. “That’s th’one, boss. Stuff looks like shit and tastes like it too.” 

Yondu groans, going through his usual little ritual after a morning spent hunched over trade deals or job details or charts or whatever else demands his attention, stretching out his shoulders and wringing his neck from side to side until it clicks. 

“Heck, I need a new cook,” he says. Kraglin smiles to himself. The day Yondu makes good on his threats to sack Shorro is the day he orders the bridge crew to pilot the _Eclector_ into the nearest star. He hangs back, just a little, letting Yondu stride ahead without really appearing to, then shortens his paces to match. 

“Can’t make ships without steel, sir.” 

“Whas that supposed to mean?” Yondu shakes his head. “Can’t make no gourmet Xandarian haute-cuisine without solid food? Remind me to rob the next damn produce ship I see. I’d _murder_ for fruit that ain’t been dried and drenched in preservatives til it’s the same colour it comes out.” 

Yondu’d murder for a helluva lot less, but Kraglin doesn’t point it out. He sighs to himself instead, faux-dreamy, and raises his voice as if in prayer – 

“Meat. That’d do it for me. Not just protein blocks. Actual meat. And uh, _roasted_. Or grilled. Ain’t too choosy. Just so long as it’s done til s’all crispy at the edges, then soft n’juicy in the centre – wait, but _bouncy_ too; y’know, not the stuff that just falls apart in your mouth, but you’ve actually gotta _chew_ t’get anywhere…” 

He trails off. Yondu’s stopped so abruptly that he’s walked into his back. “Uh, boss?” 

“Don’t you dare stop talking,” says his captain. He sounds slightly strangled. 

“Um. Right then.” He sidesteps and props his shoulders against the vents set into the sloped rust-coloured wall. “How about, uh…” 

“Fresh bread,” Yondu supplies. Kraglin blinks. 

“Ain’t you from a hunter-gatherer-type…?” 

Yondu’s glare cuts him off (he’s never been particularly forthcoming about his past, but Kraglin thinks guiltily of the _interest_ a certain Xandarian modder had taken in Centaurians and decides that it ain’t his place to ask, and that if he’d been brought up on whatever could be found in a forest, he’d probably crave processed food too). “Right. Um. So, like, from one of them fancy-like cornershop places on Kree planets? Or –“ 

“No way. Ain’t into none of that crap. Worth more to look at than what it tastes, anyway.” 

Kraglin scoffs in agreement; he’s rewarded with crinkling red eyes and the sharp yellow slice of a half-smile. Yondu’s standing in front of him. With Kraglin lent sideways and him straight-legged they’re of a height. Yondu takes the decisive step – as usual – crossing his arms and pushing himself to rest on the wall besides. Through the airlock porthole opposite, the stars wheel endlessly by. 

“Nah,” says Yondu, watching them. “I’m thinkin’ of those cruddy little street vendors – y’know, they got ‘em on Hrax? Where they bundle all their wares in and out of these tiny stalls every time a Nova patrolship passes, like they’re dealin’ A-Class Huffer or something, when they’re really just selling pastries at bog-price without no paperwork.” 

Kraglin nods, nursing a smile of his own. Yes. The pastries. He remembers them well. The smell staled throughout the day, merging with the usual fug of rotten food, stale piss and pollution that blanketed the Hraxian metropolis like a smogcloud. But trawl the underdocks early enough in the morning and it was like your nose’d arrived in fucking Nirvana. 

“There was this one stall near where I grew up,” he says. Then pauses for a moment. He continues only when he sees Yondu’s eyebrows cinch in silent demand for him to continue. “They made these buns, right? Big as yer fist. One of ‘em could feed you for a day – and they were filled too, with all kindsa stuff, dependin’ on what’d been cheap at market, day before.” 

Yondu dips his chin in recognition, familiar with the concept; Kraglin carries on anyway, eyes roving the busy industrial tapestry of pipes and shoddily bound cabling that are attached to the grills of the floor above as his mind quests out the memory. He’s got his arms folded over his chest, an echo of the captain’s pose. But if they weren’t tucked around his grubby jacket sleeves, they’d be dancing, painting out the picture as he spoke. 

“Beans sometimes. Sometimes scrapings from the sausage-stall. Or diced-up fruit… If you were lucky, ya got jams or melted sweets – but you never knew, not til you bit into it, and the shopkeepers’d never tell you.” He rests his head on the wall and rolls on his shoulder til he’s facing Yondu – who’s listening in silence, for once. “One time I didn’t have no money and me and the other kids were starvin’,” he relates. “So I pocketed a couple. Thought I got away with it too – they was this old couple, y’see. Little old lady watched the wares and handled the money while the man cooked out back. Both of ‘em had eyes like shrivelled up raisins; they were set so far back in her face, I figured she couldn’t see nothing.” 

Yondu doesn’t interrupt him. The distance between them remains: a wedge of artificially chilled and filtered air that Kraglin has neither the power nor the courage to breach. For a moment, he’s filled with the mortifying suspicion that he’s being boring. Waffling on – and about what? His past. Sentimental bullshit. Like he expects the captain to give a damn. Like he’s _Peter_ or someone. But there’s something in the angle of Yondu’s head – something unconfinable to words – that tells Kraglin he’s not just letting him fill the silence. 

Suddenly, the meeting of their gazes is too intense. Kraglin averts to the uneven metal floor panels. He addresses the rest of his story to his boots. 

“Anyway… so, next day, me and the other brats’ve picked enough pockets to buy our dinner proper-like. And I was a cocky little shit back then –“ 

_That_ makes Yondu snort. But he’s swallowed it in the second it takes for Kraglin to shoot him an affronted glare. 

“- _Back then_ , I said; so I didn’t see no harm in going back to that same stall, right in the middle of the goddam day, and asking for their biggest bun like I had the sun shinin’ out my fucking ass.” 

Yondu smirks. “M’guessing it didn’t go so good,” he says. His voice rasps at the bottom of its register, having gone unused a minute. Kraglin is hit with an entirely inappropriate rush of warmth. It constricts uncomfortably in his chest, and only gets worse when he glances over. 

Perhaps he _is_ getting soft. Damn Terran must be rubbing off on him. 

Swallowing dry spittle, Kraglin looks away. He doesn’t know much about the captain. He don’t much like to admit it, but it’s true. Nobody else does neither – not _really_. And he don’t _know-know_ him neither, not in the sense of being able to predict him or nothing – although Kraglin’s starting to realise not even Yondu himself can do that. But that doesn’t mean it don’t smart, that he’s never told this story to the captain while his bunkmates suffer through it every time he gets sloshed. Or that Yondu’s never told any in return. 

Yet… in this moment, Kraglin decides he doesn’t care about any of that. 

Nope. None of that matters, because this… This moment right here, this second of shared, gruff intimacy… It feels _good._

So he echoes Yondu’s snicker, nodding. “’Didn’t go so good’? Yeah, y’could say that… So the old lady smiles, as usual, and serves me, as usual, and all the other little streetrats I’m draggin’ around – and she even pops the biggest bun off the top of the pile for my baggie. She takes our credit-chits and bustles off to lock ‘em up, and we all think that’s that… But when we’re back to our begging corner, just as I’ve finished tellin’ ‘em how I’d managed to pocket three fat muffins right from under her nose the day before, I take this massive bite… and it’s a fuckin’ dead rat.” 

Yondu, who’s been expecting chilli powder or laxatives or something of the like, grimaces on reflex. Kraglin gleefully continues. “Like, the whole fucking rat! Can you believe it?” He shudders at the memory as Yondu’s expression morphs to vicious schadenfreunde. “Claws and fur and tail and all. Baked in a bun. Was going rancid too – can’t believe I didn’t fucking smell it. And I had, like, a quarter of it stuffed in my gob.” Kraglin’s grin sours. “Shit was fucking _disgusting_. Other kids were laughing too hard to notice when I ran off to throw up.” 

Yondu looks like he might have joined in with them, if had he been present on the day. “Hell,” he gasps through his grin, light glinting from gold-capped teeth. “I can just imagine yer fuckin’ _face_ …” 

Even the fact that his miserable humiliation at the hands of the bun-lady’s enough to wring amusement from folks two and a half decades later can’t rain on Kraglin’s parade. Yondu’s here; Yondu’s leaning a little closer, breaching his self-imposed metre-wide circle of personal space. And Yondu’s laughing at something Kraglin’s said. Something that weren’t even snark-and-bullshit. And his palms look rough and cool where they rest on his biceps, and he’s angled towards him from shoulders through hips, and is his mouth really as dry and chapped as it looks…? 

Kraglin licks his lips, and without really thinking about it, twists to kiss him. 

Next moment, he’s flat out on the floor with a ringing head. Spots fade slowly from his eyes. 

“Um,” says Yondu. 

Kraglin groans. Pushes himself onto his elbows. Then knees. Then feet, using the wall as a crutch. Yondu doesn’t hold out a hand to help him up, but he hasn’t marched off neither, which Kraglin considers a positive. He’s dithering on the other side of the corridor now, past the airlock door. An endless strata of stars and nebula flux through hyperspace behind his right ear. And he maybe, possibly, looks a little sheepish. Kraglin may not know the captain’s whole damn life story, but he knows him well enough to understand that there’s no apology forthcoming. 

“S’okay sir,” he says. Cracks his jaw back in. 

“You surprised me,” Yondu says, crossing his arms. Kraglin tries to shrug, feels his shoulder socket twinge from where he landed on it, and winces. 

“Yeah. But first time I tried t’kiss you ya nearly put an arrow through my skull, boss. This’s _progress_.” That makes the surly expression fade from Yondu’s face. The corner of his mouth twitches, and he lets his stance relax. 

“Hey, back then I thought you was tryin’ to _eat_ me.” 

Kraglin shakes his head. Then regrets it, and tenderly probes the blossoming bruise where elbow had been introduced to temple. “Fuck, I ain’t Horuz,” he says. 

He shoves away from the wall and stands wobbly, but solo. Yondu considers him, as Kraglin shuffles his feet and attempts to look as casual as one can when one’s just been sucker-punched to the floor. If there’s a glimmer of concern hidden in his frown, Kraglin ain’t gonna call him out on it. “Speakin’ of eating,” he starts, when it seems Yondu’s not going to re-instigate conversation – “You and me, we gotta date with Shorro Special.” 

“And sparrin’ afterwards,” Yondu agrees. “Can’t spend one more minute in that control room. If I see another written word before the day’s over, I’m gonna have to kill something.” 

“Sounds like a plan, sir.” Kraglin makes a vain attempt at hiding the hope in his voice. Sparring. Him. Yondu. Together. That almost sounds like… Then he remembers how distant Yondu’s been all month, and the _reason_ for it. And also remembers that he’s supposed to be there to _talk_ to and all of that crap, and that this probably just means Yondu’s looking for an excuse to beat someone up. 

That’s an effective enthusiasm-drain if there ever was one. 

“Shall we head?” he asks dully, nodding in the direction of more populated corridors. Yondu gives him an odd look, but nods and leads the way. 

“Can’t think why no species’d invent _kissing_ ,” he says over his shoulder as they walk. “Mouths’re made for eatin’, talkin’, whistlin’...” 

“And the occasional blowjob,” Kraglin reminds him. 

“And the occasional blowjob. But kissin’… S’just slimy and weird. Why d’you like it so much?” 

“Maybe if you gave me the chance to actually give you one, I’d show ya, boss.” 

“Not after eating none of Shorro’s food, you ain’t.” Yondu shudders. “I ain’t tasting that shit twice.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is pretty much filler - a chance for me to explore the Ravager ship a bit, before uploading the mega pre-Peter fic I'm working on. Hope y'all enjoy. x

They climb down the ladder to the canteen deck in silence – Kraglin suspects it might be a comfortable one. As soon as they hit ground level they’re immersed in a sea of grimy red leather, barging shoulders and smacking hands. Shorro’s mess is open continuously, day-shift and night alike. Not that ‘day’ nor ‘night’ are more than arbitrary markers when you’re trawling the galactic aether. The last thing’s you want is to be boarded in the middle of a down-cycle when everyone’s snoring – so while every crewman’s got their allotted waking and sleeping shifts, these rotate around the clock, no hour left uncovered. The lights in the bunk rooms are on a constant dim. If you make too much racket stomping by, even if it reads noon on your chronometer, you’re liable to wind up lynched by sleep-deprived Ravagers. 

Barging along with the crowd, Yondu’s glad he’s relocated the dorms on this level as far away from the galley as possible. While Shorro’s mess never closes, Shorro himself shuts down once every twelve hours. After that, nosh’s kept lukewarm in vat-like tureens until every scrape’s been cleaned. There’s nobody who wants to get stuck with that last mealy bowlful. Nah, cook and captains’ timetables’re probably the only ones that the whole crew’s got memorized; one hour until Shorro turns in for the night, and there’s already fights breaking out. 

Yondu, being captain and all, could technically stomp through the ruckus and demand to be served first and foremost – and has been known to on occasion, when he’s in a hurry (or has had a bad day, or doesn’t like the Ravager who’s next in line). Today however, he and Kraglin join the gaggle of hungry space pirates, taking their place in the queue with the rest. It’s all as normal. Or _almost_ normal – as close to normal as they’re liable to get. 

Kraglin shifts from sole to sole, feeling his heels catch and squeak on the scrubbed plastic floor. In front of him, Yondu yawns, scratches his stubble, and very obviously does not give a shit about the change in atmosphere evoked by his presence – that, or he just don’t notice it anymore. How much of the hubris is genuine, and how much feigned for the benefit of everyone else, Kraglin hasn’t got the hang of working out yet. But this, he feels, must be the latter. 

It isn’t like Yondu’s announcing his presence. He’d be using the arrow if he wanted to make an entrance, and among a crew patched together from all four corners of the galaxy, pretty much anyone can blend in. Yet there’s a significant decrease in the volume around them, not to mention the colour of the language. That stems mostly from the pack of newbies in front, the ones who keep shooting him and the boss nervous side-eyes: evidently too green to know that Yondu honestly don’t give two shits if he catches them slouching or cussing up a storm. But even the senior Ravagers – as in, any of ‘em who’ve lasted more than two years, who can call themselves _smart, skilled,_ and just plain ol’ _lucky_ – don’t shove about quite as much when captain’s in the room. Kraglin can’t tell if he’s glad, or just irritated with how many fewer folks shoulder past him when he’s got Yondu by his side. 

He lifts his arms, making the most of the additional space to hook his elbows out and thread his fingers together behind his head. Yeah. Being first mate has its benefits. Sure, the crew might not respect him much when he’s by himself – buncha louts. But there’s a pretty big _yet_ tacked on there. Kraglin’s already got two mil on his head from the Nova Empire, courtesy of that lil’ trade ring he’d rigged on one of their outlying satellites. He ain’t a _big big_ name – again, not _yet_. But he’s on his way. 

The next set of bowls thunk out of the hatches, one after another – _clunk, clunk, clunk, clunk_ – all along the countertop. Steam billows up. So does the smell – Kraglin’s nose attempts to retreat into his face. 

“Yum.” 

Yondu grunts in agreement. 

Nevertheless, a swathe of red leather jackets peel from the rest, chunky grey goulash in hand, and noisily hustle for the few remaining chairs that are scattered at the mess hall’s edge. They’re up next; Kraglin takes his place in front of a corrugated metal hatch, inhaling the nose-hair-curling reek of whatever sludge Shorro’s serving up today. Heck, he almost wishes he didn’t have the basic omnivorous bipedal digestive system. Sure, makes finding food on a job easier. But is it really worth it when you’re faced with a bowl of… this? 

On cue, the shutters clatter up. The next twenty dishes of goop come thundering out the chute. Kraglin picks his up, the heat-proof pewter disappointingly chilly against his palms, and wastes a mournful moment searching his dinner for any hint of something that had once been edible. He’s jerked from his analysis by Yondu, who bumps him with his bowl and nods for the exit. 

“C’mon. You’re blocking the gangway, and it’ll taste better hot.” 

“No it won’t,” Kraglin says. 

“No it won’t,” Yondu agrees, putting his bowl down to pop a lid over Kraglin’s for him. “But at least it’ll burn yer gob so bad that you won’t be able to taste it.” 

Thankfully, the galley’s got a bunch of entrances and exits, each leading to a different wing of the ship. They avoid the most crowded, and head towards the far-east ammo stores before doubling back and climbing through a series of cramped spiralling stairways and pipe-lined chutes until they hit top deck. Top deck’s home to the bridge, the comms centre, Yondu’s cabin and a handful of decent-sized training rooms that can throw out anything from simulated battle sequences to target practice. The red lights buzzing besides three of the hatches mean they’re locked down in use – captain’s got overrides, but it’s still bad form to bust in on someone else’s gig. Yondu leads the way until they come across a fritzed bulb. A kick makes it stutter to life. Green. He grins, slams his palm on the biolock, and kicks the reinforced steel door hard enough to make its hinges creak. 

“Alright!” he calls once the hatch has locked behind them. His voice bounces off every angled plane of the room, which is shaped like a giant honeycomb: half the size of a warehouse and constructed of a hundred thousand interlocking hexagons. “Fight, fuck, food?” 

The proposition’s made so casually that Kraglin answers before he’s realised what’s been said. “That order, boss? I’m hungry.” 

Yondu spins around when he reaches the room’s centre, coat flapping manically behind him and condensation-beaded bowl clasped in an outflung hand. “No fighting on a full stomach.” Then smirks. “Or fucking, for that matter.” 

Kraglin snorts, setting his own bowl down by the door and shrugging out of his coat. Blood pumps through his neck, hot and heady, and it’s a struggle to keep his voice careless. “Whatever. Need to work up an appetite before I can stomach this crap, anyway.” 

“That’s the spirit! Now git over here and hit me.” 

Kraglin, to be fair, makes a valiant attempt. 

He’s sparred with Yondu enough times to know going at him straight’s not gonna get him far – when he’s going hand-to-hand, Yondu ain’t the flashiest fighter, but he knows how to use his centre of gravity, and can flip Kraglin onto his back like a dead beetle the moment he’s in grappling distance. Nah. You wanna fight a Ravager, you gotta go _dirty_. 

Kraglin grins, bouncing on the balls of his feet and bringing his fists up to guard his face: classic boxer-shuffle. Eyes fixed on his, Yondu cricks his neck to both sides, shakes out his arms, and starts to close the distance between them. His pace is sedate, leisurely. 

Kraglin’s not fooled. 

He lets Yondu take two more steps, until he’s _almost_ in reach. Then lunges, aiming to tackle him around the knees. Yondu bounces out the way. It’s faster than you’d anticipate, considering his casual slouch, but Kraglin isn’t expecting anything less. He’s also expecting the boot about to come crashing between his shoulder blades. Which is why when he twists, one arm compressed to brace against the ground and propel himself _back_ and _up_ in a violent surge, he almost, _almost,_ drives his elbow into Yondu’s gut. 

The captain lurches away, graceless and wide-eyed. The trailing ends of his trenchcoat have flipped over his back; he has to shake himself to get them to slip down. Then slowly, he lets his face split into a broad grin. 

“Not bad, lad.” 

Kraglin echoes his smile, crooked tooth for tooth. “You know it,” he pants. 

From then on, it’s all harsh breath, the creak of stretched leather, the rush of air as knuckles fly past his ear. Kraglin feints a jab at Yondu’s left cheek, bringing his right fist in a sweeping hook while he’s distracted. Yondu has to all but fling himself backwards to avoid it. Landing heavy but firm, he whistles to himself. Kraglin flinches. Then realises it’s just a sound of approval, and pulls himself together to ward off the ensuing barrage. 

Yondu on the offensive’s pretty fucking formidable. Man fights like a tank, never pulling a punch and always aiming to hurt. It’s a relentless bombardment, a salvo of fists and knees and the occasional headbutt that Kraglin’s hard-pressed to deflect, let alone dodge. He’s gasping for breath in minutes. Sweat streams off the bridge of his nose, dripping from his chin. 

A sneaky uppercut’s the first to catch him seriously – it’s thrown while Kraglin’s still recovering from a roundhouse kick, which smacks into his crossed arms rather than his face. It’s dirty, but practical. And fuck, does Kraglin feel it. The imprint of Yondu’s knuckles is branded through his entire jaw. His head snaps back, neck crunching, and his body follows it. 

Kraglin’s brain splinters in sympathy with his molars. But his body’s trained where his mind’s fragile. He turns his crashdown into a roll, minimizing the damage and forcing himself onto his feet to catch Yondu’s next punch and deal a cross to his solar-plexis which is only slightly shakier than it should be. 

His captain’s wheeze is gratifying. Kraglin follows up immediately, muscles working on instinct rather than command. Yondu’s bowed over his fist. Heck, he’s practically _presenting_ the back of his head for a chop-down. 

Kraglin is never one to refuse a gift. Even if said gift is suspiciously horse-shaped. 

He jumps up, putting all his weight towards the point of his elbow and aiming for the tender join between skull and cervical vertebrae. Adds in a wily yell. Because, well, why the heck not? 

Only, by the time elbow meets neck, neck’s not there no more. 

“Fuck,” Kraglin has time to sputter. 

Then he’s hitting the floor. He goes down hard, thrown by the force of his own attack. Face, meet steel. Blood fills his mouth. Kraglin snorts bubbles. Don’t slow him down though. Can’t. Bit o’pain’s nothing when it’s life or death. He gives up now, he ain’t worthy of being a Ravager – let alone first mate. 

Teeth gritted, bitten tongue filling one side of his mouth like a corpulent slug, Kraglin gets his hands under him. He overrides the numbness from where he’s bashed the nerve in his elbow joint. He steels himself. He pushes _up_ – 

To be met by the counterweight of Yondu’s boot, planted on the small of his back and pinning his lower body to the floor. 

“Fuck,” says Kraglin again, good-naturedly. Mostly. As good-naturedly as you can, around a mouthful of blood. 

“Hey.” Yondu’s heel grinds down his back. He can _hear_ the smirk. “Now that’s an idea.” 

Kraglin has to swallow several times, blood clagging up his throat. When his airway’s clear enough to reply, he tilts his neck to the side and squints at the captain out the corner of his eye. He can’t see his face, just the strong angle of a leg and the edge of his trenchcoat. The few extra seconds of hacking have done little to solidify the words that need to be said or shunt them from brain to mouth, but that doesn’t matter. Kraglin’s not exactly accustomed to thinking before he speaks. 

“You, uh,” he says. Stops. Starts. Glances around for inspiration – best as he can, what with being pinned on his belly and all. Figures he’s already come this far, and continues. “You, um, sure you alright with this?” There’s silence from Yondu. Kraglin hastens to clarify – “With fucking, I mean. After – “ 

The foot presses down with considerably more force. Kraglin chokes on his words. 

“Don’t go there.” The flat tone is warning enough by itself. Kraglin yelps, scrabbling cack-handed behind his back to catch Yondu’s boot, scratch his ankles, anything to get the weight off – which is swiftly shifting from irritating to downright painful. It remains a stubborn second longer, immovable as a bolder. Then – and only then: when the point’s been made that it’s retreating at its owner’s behest – it pulls away. 

Yondu steps back. Kraglin waits for the definitive stomp of foot on steel before he rolls over and sits, futilely massaging new bruises from his lower spine. 

“Fuck, boss. That hurt.” 

Yondu snorts, glowering at the far wall. “Yeah well. You should learn when t’keep yer mouth shut.” 

There’s a brief silence. Kraglin takes advantage of it to roll onto his feet. He keeps it slow-like, vertebrae clicking into place one at a time. A sticky string of blood and mucus dislodges with the motion. It slides over his lip; he wipes it on a stained sleeve. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, tentative. Yondu’s eyes are as good as crackling; when they relocate to Kraglin, his intestines shrivel and knot. 

“Don’t you _apologise_ neither,” he spits. “Don’t need no pity.” 

Kraglin winces. “I know.” 

“Then how’s about you shut the hell up.” 

“About this, or in general –?“ 

“Dunno. Don’t fucking care.” 

His gaze is held a moment longer. Yondu’s sclera are the colour of a volcano mid-eruption and about as ominous. Kraglin is reminded of the presence of the arrow, stowed in Yondu’s belt. He picks his nails against the seam of his bloody cuff in agitation. He’s just trying to _help_. Ain’t this what you’re supposed to do when you’re… when you’re in this situation? Be all… sensitive and shit? 

The captain’s scoff puts a stop to those thoughts. Yondu whirls around, coat flapping noisily against his knees, and marches over to the dumped bowl of slops. 

“Still wanna fuck?” Kraglin calls after him, semi-hopeful. “I’m up for it, if you are. That’s all I meant.” The last words come out more defensive than intended. Kraglin shakes his head at himself in aggravation. He’s half-dazed and all-stupid, like he’s just vaulted the fence into a clearly signposted minefield, yet is still surprised when the ground starts exploding under his feet. In a fucking maze; no map to the exit. And he’s somehow running in circles and moving backwards at the same time. 

Sure enough, Yondu replies in kind, all sneer and vitriol. 

“Yeah? Well, maybe I ain’t in the mood no more.” 

Shit. His voice is acid poured over gravel. The captain stoops to pick up his bowl, one hand absently pressing against his stomach where Kraglin’s hit landed, and turns away. Kraglin blinks, hurries to fetch his own bowl – and then ponders whether he should trail after him or stick to his own corner, as Yondu sets his course for the opposite end of the hexagonal deck. 

What does that _mean_? He wants space? He wants Kraglin to keep his distance so he don’t end up punching him again? Or maybe – just maybe – he wants him to follow. 

One thing’s for sure – Yondu ain’t in a mood for talking. And Kraglin’s far from fluent at grumpy-Centuarian, much as he hates to admit it. Either way, he’s going out on a limb. _Go for it_ , orders the voice in his head. _Overthinking’s what landed you in this mess. And seeing as you’ve already screwed up, yer hardly gonna make things worse._ That is, of course, a grievous underestimation of Yondu’s ability to nurse grudges. But Kraglin hasn’t any better ideas, and neither does he fancy dithering about by the doors like some nervy rookie recruit bunking off his first solo. Swallowing any lingering sense of self-preservation, he scoops up his lunch and pads after. 

His effort at silent reconciliation is marginally successful. Yondu doesn’t start whistling, at least – Kraglin counts that a victory. 

They slump together against the far wall, prying off the plastic tops and letting the reek of stagnant oil erupt. Yondu fishes moodily through the lumps with his spoon. Kraglin clears his throat, gets a warning look – but he cinches his eyebrows in a pleading v, and the droop of tension from Yondu’s shoulders, so subtle you’d have to be looking to notice it, tells him to go on. 

“If yer looking for solids, you’re gonna be disappointed, boss.” It’s a crap peace-offering. Yondu takes him up on it regardless. 

“Oi, congealed is a solid!” He scoops up a misshapen dollop. Squints at it. “Technically-like.” 

Kraglin morphs his expression to the profoundly dubious. “If you say so, sir.” Eyes rolling at his false-obsequiousness, Yondu shifts so he can dig his elbow into Kraglin’s ribs. 

“Tell you what,” he says, after a moment’s pause. There’s the start of a smile beginning. “Finish before me, and I’ll even come with ya on yer fuckin’ spa day.” 

Kraglin only wastes a moment goggling. Then he bows head to bowl and shovels in as much as his mouth can take.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drop me a comment and tell me what you thought? :) x


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **NSFW**
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> **As I've started uploading my mega TRGTGL prequel, 'Blame It On The Stars' (shameless self-promotion), have some porn to celebrate.**
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> ****

“M’only trying to help,” he mumbles through a mouthful of shirt as they strip down for bed. “Y’know that, right?” 

Their night-shifts are coincided – usually, captain and first mate work different cycles with minimal overlap for the sake of covering maximum time. But they’ve got enough bridge-trained folks assigned to the wee hours to get away with it; and anyway, Yondu figures, it’s better for _communication_ and shit. And for sneaking away to fuck, on occasion. 

He sighs. Kicks his discarded pile of leathers off the gangway so he don’t trip over them come morning. 

“Yeah, I know. Git your scrawny ass in bed.” Kraglin obeys. 

“If you ever wanna _talk_ about it –“ he says, tugging the grotty old blankets over his ankles. Yondu lets out an exaggerated groan and falls face-first onto the mattress beside him, all but bouncing him out again. “… Point taken.” Kraglin huffs, rolling to face the wall. 

He knows, somewhere deep down, that he should back off. Not push too hard. Heaven knows, Yondu’s volatile enough at the best of times. But he also hates feeling helpless. He hates feeling useless. He hates that this _happened_ ; he hates that the only folks more eager than Yondu to forget what went down during their clash with the Horde gang are the rest of the Ravager High Command; he hates that Peter’s been let off without so much as a cuff round the ear and _still_ has the guts to loudly claim unfair mistreatment when Kraglin bullies him more than usual. 

Most of all, he just hates that he wasn’t there. 

Yondu considers the back that’s been presented to him. It’s long and thin, gangly and hairy as the rest of the Hraxian, and there’s a sparse scattering of moles over his left shoulderblade. When he presses his palm to it he can feel Kraglin’s ribcage expand and contract. The contact makes Kraglin startle, just briefly. It’s obviously unexpected – but then he presses back, wiry muscles shifting under Yondu’s hand. 

“Hi,” he murmurs. 

“Hi.” 

The lights are dimmed down to slivers of amber, casting the room in a candlelight glow. If rusted metal and the general clutter of trinkets, forgotten clothes, and old job details that accumulates wherever Yondu’s left alone for too long can look ‘cosy’, it does so now. Yondu wriggles forwards. He tucks his knees to the backs of Kraglin’s thighs (lanky fucker). Then slides one arm under Kraglin’s head – Kraglin lifting his shoulders and rolling to accommodate – before pressing forwards between them. Kraglin gives an appreciative grunt, hips rocking back. When Yondu grabs his quadricep to hoik the top leg up and over, Kraglin shifts with it, pelvis rising so Yondu can slot under. It’s just enough to sandwich their bodies together from neck to calf, a rough, sweaty seam. 

“So,” says Yondu, waggling his eyebrows at Kraglin over his shoulder. “You. Me. Eight hours of downtime.” 

Kraglin cranes far enough to snicker in his face. “Thought you wasn’t in the mood.” 

“Yeah, not even your dumb mouth’s enough to keep _this_ baby down.” A buck of his hips emphasises. Kraglin clamps down on any doubts that he might be entertaining, and lets his smirk dissolve into something lewd and eager. 

“Al _right_!” 

Lube’s on the desk, for some reason – Yondu swears he put it back in the drawer, but things have a tendency to shift around his organised chaos when Kraglin’s about (a source of endless frustration, because sure, you can’t see the desktop, or the chair seat, or the cabinet, or the floor; but Yondu’s got a _system,_ damnit). He has to stand to get it, which ain’t appealing, and let go of Kraglin, which is even less so. Still. Small sacrifices; big rewards. Yondu grabs Kraglin’s crotch. He wraps a dry palm around the familiar half-swollen weight of his cock, giving him a squeeze that promises more to come, then drags his nails lightly over the veined underside, licks his nape, and reluctantly pulls away. 

A pile of old solar-run interfaces in dire need of a juicing clatter to the floor as he ransacks the desk, Kraglin none-too-subtly leering as he bends over. Yondu finds the thin tube tucked under an old scraped-clean dinner tray. He tosses it over his shoulder. Kraglin catches it, pulls the cap off with his teeth and proceeds to splash his fingers until they’re shinier than his M-ship after sponge-day. Then he crooks them at Yondu, smiling wickedly. 

“Boss?” 

“Yeah?” 

“C’mere.” 

Yondu’s only too eager to comply. Kraglin shunts against the wall, legs spread. He grabs Yondu’s hand with his sticky one, winding their fingers under and over until they’re both coated. They prep him together, one white finger and one blue, and Kraglin hisses and twitches and buries his smile in Yondu’s neck. 

When he pushes in, it’s a bit too hard and a bit too fast. Month long dry-period, and all – and he’d lie if he didn’t admit there’s a _little_ something to prove; that he ain’t damaged goods or nothing. But Kraglin moans, grin growing where his face is still tight against Yondu’s collarbone, long scrawny arms winding around his shoulders as he urges him on. 

“C’mon, c’mon…” 

Yondu allows himself to be egged, fucking in rough bursts that have Kraglin grabbing the headboard behind him for purchase, face scrunched up and lip caught in his teeth like he’s bitten into an unripe lemon. Panting out a laugh, Yondu bends forwards to nuzzle his cheek, sandwiching his lean red prick between them. Kraglin’s skin is hot and salty, the air around them humid with sweat and breath. This close he can see every sprout of stubble, every greasy pore. When Yondu bumps their foreheads together Kraglin opens his eyes, short lashes dusting shadows over the blue-grey iris, and looks straight into his. 

That point-blank connection, brief as it is, makes something lurch in his chest. 

It’s over before he knows it; as always, one of ‘em shies away. Yondu can’t even remember which one moved first this time. He pistons hard and deep, chasing that odd feeling, that strange and lingering communion, in the meeting of their bodies rather than their eyes. 

Kraglin guides his hand to his dick. Yondu doesn’t have to be told twice. He pumps him to his thrusts as Kraglin fondles his balls, rolling the sack between thin fingers and rubbing on the wiry black thatch that sprouts there, their wrists bumping with every one of Yondu’s firm strokes. 

“Fuck,” one of them groans, as Kraglin’s pre-come slicks both their hands and Yondu’s pace starts to stutter. 

“Fuck,” the other agrees. 

Yondu hitches Kraglin’s leg up from where it’s slipped, folding him onto his back. He’s rewarded with a delicious rake of nails over his shoulder. The lines burn immediately, salted by their mingling sweat, and Yondu hungrily mouths at Kraglin’s throat, coming hard as his first mate gives his left side a matching set. 

They lay for a few seconds, breathing heavily. Yondu’s collapsed over Kraglin’s chest like a floppy cerulean deadweight. Then Kraglin grunts, pushing him off and out so he’s got room to fist his dick. Yondu waits until there’s enough blood in his head for basic motor functions, then rolls onto his side and takes over, passing his blue hand over the red jut of his cock and forcing lazy muscles to cooperate. Kraglin, impatient, tugs him closer. Their damp legs tangle. Yondu leans away from the sloppy kiss, but apologises by sliding over him and sucking a small pink nipple into his mouth, the one that’s slightly wonky from an old arrow-scar. Chest hair tickles his nose. Kraglin’s cock fills out his palm. His ribcage arches up, bony and uncomfortable against Yondu’s chin. He wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Kraglin gasps, eyes slivering. His hips quake out six uneven, rapid jerks. Then he’s spilling over Yondu’s fingers, hot and slick and musky, expression slipping to bliss. Yondu pumps him through it. He lets the softening flesh spill from his hands and curls up where he lays, cheek against Kraglin’s chest. Everything’s silent but for the heave of Kraglin’s settling breath. 

When Yondu’s deemed him recovered, he peels his face off, wincing – sweat and spit from his earlier ministrations as good as stuck them together – and treats him to a grin. Kraglin shares it, chin deep on his chest from the angle of the pillow under his neck. 

“Shower or sleep?” Yondu asks. Stretching his toes for the end of the mattress – they almost reach, as well – Kraglin pops his spine and walks fingers down Yondu’s oblique. 

“Or more sex?” 

Yondu gives his chest a light punch before settling down on it again. “Save it, ya horny bastard.” 

Sleep it is. If Kraglin ain’t gonna make the decision, he’d better do it – captain, an’ all. Sure, they’re a bit sticky – but it’ll give ‘em an excuse to actually wash the sheets come morning. They sure as hell need one. When _he’s_ gotta admit they’re nasty, that’s saying something. 

“We’re due to dock the shuttle at Gvargon’s gamma-port, morning shift. Ain’t gonna be much use if we go much longer.” Kraglin’s smile becomes wicked, but he doesn’t make the age crack he’s obviously itching to. Yondu rewards him with a pat to his thigh and a reminder – “Once we’re planetside, we gotta whole week to drop stock and sort out the job. And you owe me an off-day.” 

Kraglin elbows him in the head as he scrambles upright. 

“Wait – yer actually coming? Aw – shit. Sorry, boss.” Groaning, Yondu rubs his aching implant, grabs Kraglin by the shoulder, and rearranges his humanoid pillow into a more ergonomic position. 

“I said I would, didn’t I?” he asks. 

“Yeah, but…” Kraglin’s shoulders sag. “I figured you were jokin’, that’s all.” 

Yondu throws an arm over his abdomen, smacks his lips, and burrows his skull about until it’s comfortable on Kraglin’s belly, eyes drifting shut. “I weren’t.” Then, just so Kraglin don’t think he’s _soft_ for him or nothing – “But m’heading back to ship when I get bored.” He feels him vibrate with a laugh. Like the rumble of an M-ship’s engines at take-off. A hand centres on the back of his head, rubbing gently at the scarred blue hide. 

“Alright, boss. I’ll keep ya entertained.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I'm porny trash**


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **cw: casual child abuse**

Gvargon is one ugly lump of mineral. Its surface is tumoured and volcanic, black as coal, and webbed with a dirty chrome exoskeleton. There’s only three ports: one official, two not – although all are well-populated. Out here, they’re far enough from the galactic centre that no one gives two shits whether you’re pushing cheap produce into the market or a batch of poached Terran slaves. Heck, they could probably dock right under the governor’s nose, and they wouldn’t have more sent their way than a batted eyelid. 

But Yondu ain’t one for taking unnecessary risks. Not unless he’s bored. And anyway, much as he’s complaining about Kraglin leading them up and down half the fucking mountains this tiny moon has to offer, he is possibly, just maybe, a bit excited of the prospect of a day to themselves; no crew or job to distract them. 

Well. Not _much_ to distract them. 

Back on ship, Horuz, Morlug and Isla are juggling command. Horuz because the bastard’s actually half-competent, buried as it is underneath years of cumulated attitude problems, authority issues, and general malevolence; Morlug because she’s got a stable head between her shoulders even if she ain’t too bright with the books; and Isla to make up the deficit Morlug’s got in terms of eardrums, literacy, and vocal cords. Alone, they might be able to manage this simple operation – stop, drop, refill – without getting themselves banned from yet another station. _Might_. But together, they’re a fairly decent triumvirate. Yondu has every confidence – okay, _some_ confidence – that they won’t fuck this up. 

And if they do… Well, he’s had his eyes on that Zqo kid for some time. P’raps she’d like an official spot in his inner circle, rather than just loitering at the edges and signing for Morlug. 

For now though, Yondu has other things to worry about. Namely, the endless rocky terraces that shelve up into the sky above. And the whinging Terran on his heels. 

“Are we nearly there yet?” asks Peter. 

For the twenty-third time. 

In the past hour. 

Yondu grits his teeth. He shares a look with Kraglin. It’s a very… pointed look. One which, on Kraglin’s end, doesn’t so much _scream_ ‘I told you so’, as it mutters it sullenly from behind a cupped hand. The message sinks in, nevertheless. Yondu bares his teeth at him and focusses on placing one aching foot above the other. To Peter, he growls – 

“Keep moving, boy. Or we leave you here for the scavengers.” 

From the sound of Kraglin’s snort, he approves. 

That could be a problem. 

Still, Yondu decides to do what what Yondu does best, and brush the matter off until he actually has to deal with it. It’s just a bit of animosity, right? It’ll fizzle out soon enough. Not even Kraglin, stuffy prick that he can sometimes be, can nurse a grudge forever. 

Because after the Horde takeover, Kraglin still ain’t exactly seeing eye-to-eye with Peter. In fact, he’s about as far as eye-to-eye with him as he can get without gouging ‘em out. Which arguably makes dragging the brat along on their off-day one of Yondu’s worse ideas – but what’s the alternative? Leaving him under Horuz’s tender command is practically a death sentence. And it’s been proven that Yondu’s favoured tactic of locking him in a supply closet isn’t gonna cut it no more. 

That doesn’t mean he’s alright with the current situation – he’s already regretting the strategic positioning of himself between first mate and Terran brat. Yeah, yeah. Kraglin would’ve booted Peter over the first convenient ledge, head-over-heels, roly-polies bouncing off the boulders all the way back to the dock. But it’s a damn long climb. Having spent the great proportion of it suffering the kid’s prattle, that line of action is starting to look mighty appealing to Yondu too. 

However, if _he’s_ the one to send Peter cartwheeling to a splattery death, it’ll just prove that the rest of his damn crew were right all along. 

“Not too far now!” Kraglin calls over his shoulder – although he’s repeated that sentiment enough times since their ascent began that Yondu’s starting to doubt his map-reading skills. Lad might be able to handle a starchart like a Nova-trained navigator, but give him a hand-held terrain cartograph and he’s a fucking toddler. Yondu, much as he would never admit it, regrets not asking for directions when they had the chance. 

But amazingly, by some miraculous stroke of cosmic luck, Kraglin’s promise actually rings true. 

They trudge up a winding, shale-spilling path, boots sinking into the loose rock. Tiny landslides clatter down the mountainside, threatening to sweep Peter away before he grabs onto Yondu’s sleeve (damn it). There’s a boulder ahead, one of those gnarled and ancient things that grows faces if you look at it too long, like a fossilised titan-skull of time immemorial. Kraglin hurries on around it, injecting enthusiasm into weary steps. “It’s here, I’m sure of it –“ 

Expecting disappointment, Yondu shakes his head and follows. He can’t be bothered to dislodge Peter. At this rate, they’re all going to die of fucking starvation on this fucking mountain; no point shoving the boy back down it when he could just as easily let nature take its course. And eat his corpse, of course. 

Then Kraglin whoops. 

“Yes! Whaddid I say, whaddid I fucking _say_?” A torrent of pebbles pours around the boulder. Kraglin’s face pops over the top, shiny from the scramble and grinning like a goblin. “Boss! We’re here!” 

Yondu spares a flat look for the arid black plains above and below. “Nice spot you picked us.” 

“Not _here_ … Look, just geddup with me. You’ll see.” 

Yondu sighs until it feels like he’s deflating from the waist up. But he drags himself and Peter around the boulder and onto a neatly cut platform on top of the ledge, into which is set a vertical steel sign-stick. It’s inscribed on all four sides with characters in Xandarian, Hraxian, some illegible local vernacular, and Kree. 

_Welcome to the Galactically Renowned Gvargorian Mineral Pools! Enjoy!_

“I don’t think the exclamations are necessary,” says Yondu. Kraglin gives his shoulder a light – very light – barge. 

“Aw, c’mon. Don’t be like that, captain. It’ll be nice, you’ll see.” 

“Whatever.” One of his arms seems to be dangling lower than the other. Yondu turns, finds Peter still clinging to it, and dissuades him with an application of boot. “Gerroff! I ain’t holding your hand, boy.” 

“Didn’t ask you to, Yondu!” the kid snaps back, whipping his hand away like it’s been scorched. 

Yondu sniggers. “You really scared of a bunch of hot pools? Damn.” 

“I told ya he was getting’ soft!” calls Kraglin, already marching over to assess them. 

“I ain’t –“ Peter begins, but Yondu lets the protest fade, scree crunching under his boots as he follows his first mate. 

The pools are set into a broad plateau, scoured back beneath a darker overhang by a millennia of seismic shifts. Steam rises above them. It doesn’t form any discernible columns but floats in a dull silvery blanket, thickening into clouds above, which shrouds the whole cave in a marshlike mist. Underfoot, the shingle-shale becomes sparse. Scattered pebbles extend for a few enterprising metres, but soon smooth into glossy metamorphic rock. Calcified struts branch from the ceiling at intervals. Stalagmite and stalactite meet in knobbly pillars, creating private coves between the pools, the smaller and more densely packed the further into the cliff you walk. 

The overhang gleams indigo in the dying light. It’s igneous: forged from black glass and veined with granite. Yondu imagines he can see stars deep in its heart, fiery pinpricks incarcerated by shadows. The memories of lava locked beneath the surface. 

This volcano’s dormant. Ish. 

That’s what the guide told ‘em – expect a couple of little tremors over the night, maybe some grumbling. But so long as you don’t go throwing yourself into the lava-lake, they’re not due an eruption-related casualty for at least three hundred years. And if you make them break that prediction, there’s enough bets riding on it that your crew’ll be wrung of all their money by angry locals before they can uncouple from dock. 

Yondu, for one, isn’t planning on dipping his toes in anything toastier than a bathtub. In fact, he’s harbouring a wee bit of trepidation about using the pools all the way under the overhang – the ones which, of course, Kraglin’s making a beeline towards – but only because if there’s one place you _don’t_ want to be caught in an earthquake it’s under a five-hundred-tonne tongue of crust. Kraglin’s made up his mind though. And Yondu sure as hell ain’t gonna dither when he’s just called the boy out for cowardice. 

“Keep up!” he snaps at Peter, stalking a narrow, condensation-laced ledge between two glimmering pools. The water is murky and green-blue, swirling to yellow at the centre of each uneven rocky circlet. It’s also unnaturally thick-looking. Yondu’s convinced himself that Kraglin’s natter about dissolving if you sit in it too long is just urban legend, but faced with the actual thing, he’s suddenly not so sure. 

Still, they’re here. They’ve trekked over half this goddam moon to find this spot, and they’re going to make the most of it if it’s the last thing they do. 

Yondu’s lungs feel wet, like he’s been for a stomp through a tropical jungle in the height of monsoon-season. There’s already condensation clinging to the lapels of his coat. Huffing, he strips it off, bundles it around his boots and leaves ‘em on the driest patch he can find, padding over to Kraglin on bare feet. 

“Watch it. Slippy,” Kraglin says. His boots are propped besides him. He doesn’t look up as Yondu approaches, attention focussed on the spirals in the water, which trail out from where he’s dipped his hand in to the wrist. “Look – ain’t it pretty?” 

“Yeah. You gonna get in, or just admire the view?” 

Kraglin continues to send ripples blossoming across the pool’s surface in turquoise rosettes. The smile on his face is something new: faint but genuine, unmotivated by anything but the mingling colours before him. Heck, Yondu might even call it _tranquil_. “We got all day. And all night. We’ll look like prunes if we sit in that long.” 

Irritated, Yondu spreads his arms and gestures to the cavernous, pillar-studded room around them, in all its empty glory. “Well, what else we meant to do? Huh, genius?” 

_That_ earns him a look. And not an especially pleasant one. Kraglin checks behind, making sure Peter’s out of a Terran’s measly hearing range. Then leans forwards and hisses – 

“Hey, I didn’t know you was gonna bring the fucking kid!” 

Yondu’s mouth snaps shut. 

Oh. 

Well. That… explains a lot. From Kraglin’s weird and tactless hinting that he should accompany him on some lame _date_ to see a dull bunch of green puddles halfway through a mountain range, to the way his face had tied itself in a funny knot when he’d spotted Peter dragging his heels up the hill after them. Yondu’d figured he was just being pissy about… the… _incident,_ but this… 

This is _priceless_. 

The laugh spurts out of him so suddenly that Peter loses his balance and goes windmilling into the nearest rockpool. There’s a deafening screech, cut off immediately into burbles. Then nothing. 

Yondu, of course, laughs harder, until his whole abdomen is on fire. Kraglin, staring at the spot where Peter’s apparently been swallowed by whatever behemoth is dwelling at the pool’s bottom, nervously dabbles his fingers against the water’s surface. 

“Uh… Is he gonna be okay?” 

Yondu stops sputtering long enough to wipe his eyes. “We taught him how to swim, right?” 

“Well, we tossed him in the ocean that one time we was planetside…?” 

Yondu shrugs. “He floated then, he’ll float now.” 

And so, they wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Super-rapidly edited after a busy day - I'll try and check it this evening, if I have time! Much love; hope you enjoyed the Ravager-family shenanigans.**
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> **Please drop a comment/point out any errors~**
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> **I'll soon be uploading this fic and a bunch of other TRGTGL-related stuff (maybe some new drabbly bits too, who knows...?) on write-like-an-american.tumblr.com. xxx**


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chappie's a shortie, m'fraid. Also, I wring far too much amusement out of Peter being bullied by his awful space-dads.
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> **cw: casual child abuse**

A bubble puckers the surface. Then another. No more follow. Yondu shares another look with Kraglin, then hops over, toes slipping and sliding off the smooth marble. He squats and assesses the milky-green skein. 

“Hey, kid?” 

Silence. 

“Peter? You staying down there, or what?” 

The silence continues. 

Yondu pokes in a finger. “Ain’t too acidic or nothing,” he muses. Gives it a tentative lick, to detect if it’s been laced with numbing agents. You never know; p’raps this is all just a very elaborate assassination attempt… 

“Maybe he smacked his head on a rock,” suggests Kraglin. He doesn’t sound especially worried at the prospect – although when Yondu glares, he pops to his feet and makes his way over, skidding on the narrow pathways between the pools and rubbing sweat from his pinking forehead. “Heck, I dunno. Can Terrans sprout gills?” Yondu raises his eyebrows in disbelief. “What? It’s an honest question!” 

“We’ve had him for how many years now,” Yondu deadpans, “and you don’t know he’s an air-breather?” 

Kraglin hunches in his jacket, scowling at the opaque opalescent surface like he can see through it to the boy beneath, if only he glowers hard enough. “Well, ain’t like it’s something you bring up in casual conversation, sir.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” They wait a second longer. Yondu starts tugging off his shirt. “Hold this, would ya?” 

Kraglin reaches out – then reconsiders, and shakes his head. “Nah, I’ll go, s’fine.” 

Yondu squints at him. “What’s got you so eager to go fishin’ for Terran?” 

“Eh…” Kraglin’s looking everywhere but him. “We dunno what’s down there, and…” 

“You said it yourself. Bounced his dumb skull off a rock.” Kraglin doesn’t make to take his shirt again, so Yondu wads it up and chucks it at his head. It flops to one side, Kraglin reluctantly grabbing it before it falls in the pool. “Whatever. You’re acting weird.” 

A glance at Kraglin’s shifty expression tells him he ain’t imagining things. Yondu turns to him more fully, bouncing on his haunches. 

“What? What is it?” He wets his lips. Not that they need it in the humid atmosphere, but still. “You afraid I’m – what? Gonna get _raped_ by a pool-monster if you ain’t there to hold my hand?” 

Kraglin stiffens. “Ain’t like that, boss.” 

He still won’t look at him though. Yondu intensifies his glare to compensate. The frustration that’s been chewing on him since this whole goddam ordeal began starts to seep up, sweating through his open pores. When Kraglin stirs the soupy liquid with a wrinkled finger, worrying his lip, the dam finally bursts. 

“Heck, would you stop it? Just stop!” 

Kraglin flinches; looks up with aggrieved grey eyes that are as stubborn as they are wet. “Stop _what_?” 

“You _fucking well know_ -“ 

Another bubble bursts. 

They turn to watch the water settle. 

“Y’know,” says Yondu after a pause. “Maybe this ain’t the best time to be having this talk.” 

“Right you are, boss.” Kraglin whips off his shirt and wriggles out of his pants so fast that his descent into the pool is less a dive and more an inelegant belly-flop. He’s sucked in a deep breath, and is under before Yondu’s got his thumbs hooked under his belt loops, leaving him with the shifting clinquant reflections that glance from the glassy ceiling for company. 

Yondu blinks at the wobbling surface. He heaves out a sigh, head drooping down between his shoulders, and rubs tiredly at the back of his neck. 

“Dumbass.” 

Make that dumbasses plural. Because Kraglin’s up in approximately half a minute – _juuuust_ enough time for Yondu to start cussing out his luck as he unbuckles his pants. His fingers freeze on the belt clasp as Kraglin breaches the surface. The Hraxian’s hair’s slicked back with foam and he’s gasping like a guppy, but there’s a small soaked head flopped victoriously against his chest. 

“Can’t see a fucking thing down there,” he informs Yondu, treading water as he passes Peter up. The liquid’s translucent where it runs from his crown: rivulets of pale turquoise and delicate eggshell-blue. Yondu wordlessly drags the boy onto dry-ish land. Kraglin paddles to the edge of the pool after them. He rests his elbows on the mineral-crusted lip so he can peer at Peter’s lax white face. “How the brat managed to find the one deep pool, I’ve no idea.” 

Because Peter’s a misfortune magnet? One driven by sheer willpower to make Yondu’s life as miserable as possible? 

Well, he ain’t dying today. Just to spite his deathwish, Yondu rolls him onto his back – giving his chest a good pound in the process, so colorful water spurts from his mouth geyser-style. He snarls in his dazed pink face. 

“Oi, brat! Back in the land of the living! Now!” 

Peter’s head flops like a limp noodle. But his eyes are open. That’s something. Yondu figures that if he’s awake, he’s fit for ribbing; and prods him in the centre of his damp, fringe-slicked forehead hard enough to bruise. “The fuck’s wrong with ya, boy? Taking a dive without your space helmet on? Ya look like a drowned rat!” 

“Wha-?” croaks Peter. His clothes are sticking to him, saturated to his skin, and his pants are swollen with water where he’s tucked the ends in his boots so they don’t trail. “Wha… happen’d?” His eyes widen and he coughs. Yondu has the sense of mind to push him onto one side so that the deluge of grotty water that spits from his nostrils and mouth has somewhere other to go than straight back down. That somewhere being all over Kraglin. 

“Aw, what the heck -!” 

“Kraglin?” the kid burbles, rubbing one irritated red eye like he can’t quite believe that the man half-submerged in the glimmering water isn’t a drowning-induced hallucination. “Did you… Did you rescue me?” 

Kraglin, sneer curdling, hoists himself out. He stomps over to Peter and Yondu, straining streams from his Mohawk as he goes, and picks up his discarded pants, snapping drops off them angrily before wriggling them on. “Yeah, and a fat lot of thanks I get for it! The fuck were you doing down there, anyway? Sightseeing?” 

Peter shrinks with every word. He’s shivering, although the air in the cavern is muggy and warm, and he shifts into a hunch, hugging his drenched knees. 

“M’boots… The coat… They were so heavy, I couldn’t…” An epiphany occurs. His gaze snaps back to Kraglin, caught between bewildered and disbelieving. “Shit. I think you saved my life!” 

Kraglin makes an equally horrified gesture of denial. 

“No! No I didn’t – it was captain’s orders, that’s all! _He’s_ the one who made me go in after ya! Blame him!” 

Traitor. Yondu, who until this moment had been wishing he had some of that funky Xandarian popping-corn, decides it’s high time they change the subject. 

“Don’t you know you’re supposed to kick off yer shoes when you’re in water?” he asks, slapping Peter on the temple. (Yeah, yeah. He gives him a _quick_ check over first. A real brief one. Just to make sure Kraglin’s prediction about skulls meeting rocks ain’t true after all, and that the brat’s not sustaining any grievous head wounds. There’s no point fishing him out, then killing him yourself when you aggravate his brain damage now, is there?) Yondu scoffs when Peter shies away, pouting at the new hurt. “Idiot. Shoulda left you to drown; be one less brainless turd on my crew.” 

The boy’s red-blonde curls drool down his cheeks. He scrapes them defiantly out of his eyes, and waggles one booted foot in Yondu’s face. “You try undoing laces underwater!” 

Fair point. Yondu looks him over. “Your coat then, at least.” 

Oddly, that comment has the brat’s newfound courage withering. He shrivels where he sits, oversized, stinky second-hand leathers wrapped around him like the wings of a hairless bat. Something like embarrassment flits through his expression. He looks utterly pathetic, Yondu thinks: hair all mussed, soaked through like he’s been shat out by a Jthuoan slime-worm. Can’t have been fun, being dragged down into the bowels of a stinky, sulphurous hotpool by your steel toe-caps. Claustrophobic and dark. Murky water pressing in all around… 

Kid musta thought he’d been abandoned too, the amount of time he and Kraglin spent bickering. 

That’s not his problem though. In fact, it serves Peter right, what with the amount of fuss he made on the journey up. Unsympathetic, Yondu flicks the brat on a heat-reddened ear. 

“Ow! What?” 

“Asked you a question; expect an answer. Why didn’t you take your coat off?” 

Peter’s injured gaze wavers. He drops it to stare at the sodden cuffs that drip a few inches beyond the furthest reach of his fingertips. “I didn’t wanna lose it,” he whispers.”S’the only coat I got.” 

_Ugh._

Yondu feels wholly justified in repeating the process on the opposite ear. 

“Don’t you be so fuckin’ sentimental! You’d die over a goddam coat?” Hands shooting up to protect himself from further aural assault, Peter all but gawps at him. “What?” 

“Thought you’d be mad if I lost it!” 

“Well _yeah_ , but…” Yondu momentarily struggles for words. He settles for folding his arms and hardening his mouth into a line, looking as stern as is possible while shirtless and drippy with sweat and condensation. “Look, brat. I can get you a new coat any time, yeah? That’s _replaceable_.” 

For a second, Peter’s cowed. Then he thinks about what Yondu’s said, and dares nurture a goofy smile. “Y’mean… I… I ain’t replaceable?” he hazards. 

Yondu’s eyes bug. Fuck. “No, no, that ain’t what I –“ 

One pinky dug into his ear to try and sponge out the damp, Kraglin disguises his chuckles behind a not-too-convincing coughing fit. Yondu scrunches his nose at him. The rock pool grows infinitely more appealing, although he hasn’t yet made up his mind whether he’s going to drown the both of them, or just himself. 

“Don’t push it, boy” he growls. Leans forwards, brows low in threat, until Peter squeaks and nods his head so hard it’s liable to fly off. 

“Right! I’m replaceable! Gotcha!” 

Kraglin’s cackles crank up a notch. There’s no salvaging this. Yondu gives the two of ‘em equally poisonous glares. Then he rises, retrieves his shirt from where Kraglin dropped it, and goes to find a pool of his own. _Away_ from stupid Terran juveniles. And irritating Hraxian first mates. 

“Aw, fuck off!” he calls when he hears them patter after him. There’s a pause, during which he entertains the hope that they might actually listen. But no – the universe ain’t never that kind. The footsteps pick up again. Both are distinctly sloppy. Fountains splurt over the tops of Quill’s boots, and Kraglin sounds no less waterlogged. Idiots, both of ‘em. Disloyal, undisciplined… 

Yondu’s managed to smother his smile by the time they catch up. 

He scouts out a nice quiet pool. It’s clearer than the surrounding ones, and walled on three sides by wattle and daub that’s been petrified in slick white stone. “Alright,” he says, tugging off his trousers. Peter makes gagging noises like the brat he is, earning himself another hard flick. “I’m stoppin’ off here for a while. You two can do what you fucking want.” 

Kraglin and Peter meet each other’s eyes. A silent conversation is held, while Yondu levers himself into the water, hissing damp air as the warmth seeps into his aching muscles. Peter holds his ground for all of five seconds – admirable – before caving and sloping off to explore the rocky formations that grow in the seam where roof meets floor. At some point, he realises that this means Kraglin and Yondu are going to be naked, together, in relative privacy, and decides that the furthest pools are in fact the ones in dire need of exploration. Wise kid. 

Kraglin pokes his head out the natural doorway, watching him scamper between the circles of glassy glowing green. “He’s gonna fall in again, sir. I betcha.” Yondu can’t tell if he sounds amused or exasperated at the prospect. 

“Yeah well. Next time he can find his own way out.” 

Kraglin rolls his pants down his wet legs, toes splayed for balance on the gnarly, uneven rocks, and leaves Peter to it. He’s got better things to worry about than some dipshit Terran with a deathwish – he did promise to keep his captain entertained, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may notice that that last line sounds like the introduction to a cheesy porno. There's a reason for that.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **More porn. Yay. I'm telling myself it's plot-relevant as well as self-indulgent.**

Turning to the tub reveals a surprising picture of peace. Yondu’s got his legs floating in front of him, head tilted back and arms looped over the rim of the pool at his back. His eyes are shut. The implant’s dull. His muscles are relaxed, but there’s still something unspeakably dangerous there; like one of them big catlike carnivores who lounge around in trees, lazy-like and slow-breathing, until they spot their next meal ticket passing below. Yondu ain’t exactly sleek and feline. But he’s got that same raw power in his build. The steam does good for him, smoothing out the scars and imperfections, making the ropy bulk of his muscles look streamlined.

Kraglin slips in, a pale shadow moving through the fog who gains clarity as he sinks into the water. He feels awkward and bony for all of five seconds. Then Yondu’s eyes crack and he pushes off the wall, crowding him against the back of the pool, mouth twisting into a dirty leer.

“So,” he says. One hand feels for the smooth seat-like ledge behind Kraglin; the other pushes him onto it. “We got rid of the kid.”

“For now,” mutters Kraglin. But he doesn’t resist, sinking where he is guided. When he tills his fingers through the luminescent surface, reflections scatter like handfuls of glass confetti.

A slippery blue palm is centred on his chest. It pins him, a single point of contact that doesn’t exert any pressure but demands obedience from presence alone. Fingers drum his clavicle. Kraglin falls back, unquestioning, hips scooting to the end of the seat. His torso curves until only his chin remains unsubmerged, and the warm pool welcomes him like the folds of a watery womb. It’s a baptism, of sorts. One which becomes infinitely carnal when Yondu’s hand slides down.

Their skin sticks weirdly above the surface, tacky with beaded moisture. The callouses on Yondu’s palm catch in the wiry hair on Kraglin’s chest. But where they’re immersed, everything is slithery and perfect. Yondu lifts himself out the water, kneeling on the ledge. Water laps the dimples on his back, Kraglin’s legs sandwiched between his. His fingers practically glide as they pumps Kraglin’s dick, milking him into the translucent shallows.

Kraglin’s jaw pushes forwards and he groans through his nose. He floats his hands up to rest over Yondu’s waist, nocturnal-pale and spiderlike in the wavering light.

“Boss? C-can I -?”

Yondu cants against him. The tip of his hardening cock stirs the coloured water; gold and shimmering turquoise blend and swirl.

“Whatever you’re about t’say,” he says, “yes.”

“Right…”

Kraglin still hesitates. His nails dig into the tough blue hide of Yondu’s sides. This time though, his captain doesn’t chastise him for the indecision. Just sits back on his first mate’s thighs to wait it out, palms braced against his chest for balance. Half suspended in water as they are, everything’s a little off-centre, a little precarious. It feels like the future is just as tenuous, liable to slide in any direction.

The new tactic works though - _patience,_ should try that more often. Kraglin sucks in an open-mouthed breath for fortification, feeling humidity collect at the back of his throat. “Turn around,” he croaks.

Yondu can’t hesitate – if he hesitates, Kraglin’ll hesitate, and then who knows where they’ll be? Stuck in the same rut of dancing forwards and back, that’s where: Kraglin constantly retreating when Yondu tries to spur him to advance. So he turns. Not the most graceful moment of his life – in fact, he narrowly avoids kneeing Kraglin in the chin, and almost gets a dunking when his shins skid on the seat’s sloped ledge.

“Scoot back, willya?” he asks, hands clenched tight on Kraglin’s bony patellae. “I can’t ride ya if I’m worryin’ about fallin’ in the deep bit an’ doing a Quill.”

Kraglin does so, seating Yondu more stably on his lap. “Up a bit,” he murmurs. Fingers worm down to tap Yondu’s tailbone. Then, when Yondu obeys, lifting his ass and bowing forwards over Kraglin’s knees – “Wouldn’t mind giving you mouth-to-mouth though, sir.”

Yondu glares at him, just in case Kraglin’s tempted to push him in and try. “I’ve still got my arrow with me, y’know. And I bet I can whistle underwater.”

There’s a quiet chuckle; Kraglin’s fingers rock where they’re rubbing him open. “Alright, alright, point taken.”

The water’s light and warm. A bit slops inside him when Kraglin adds another finger – _weird_. Ain’t gonna do much for lube, that’s for sure. Yondu’s being loosened up slower than usual though, even with the extra friction. He would complain – but there’s teeth nibbling at the junction between his neck and the top knobble of his spine. Kraglin’s other hand’s come up to squeeze and twist his nipple like he’s trying to pop a blister.

“Fuck, you tryin’ to pull that off?” Kraglin turns his attentions to the other side, marginally more gentle. Yondu nods. “S’better. Alright, you got anything wet?”

“Wet?” Kraglin inquires against the meat of his shoulder. He pointedly pushes a third finger in, as warm as the water around it. It’s a measured slide, but still uncomfortable. Yondu shakes him off.

“Don’t tell me you planned a sex trip and forgot the fucking lube.”

There’s an awkward silence. Then –

“Think I got some in my pants.”

Thank fuck for their tendency to fuck whenever’s convenient. There’s usually a half-squeezed tube _somewhere_. And heck, that’s hardly the most incriminating thing that you’d turn up if you went through their pockets.

Yondu mutters something despairing under his breath about being surrounded by idiots, and kicks his feet through the pool’s murky hues as he waits. Kraglin rummages his discarded clothes, curses steadily increasing in volume. Then, as Yondu’s about to give up hope and start jerking off, he splashes victoriously down besides him, slapping his ass to encourage it out of the water again.

“This is why I don’t let you organise nothin’,” Yondu informs him flatly. But all protests are lost when Kraglin smears a slick thumb over him, circling the loosened hole while the pads of his fingers rub up behind his balls. “Mm.”

Kraglin pushes his index in besides, the muscles in his wrist straining as he pulls the digits apart, massaging in slow pulses. “Good?”

“Mm-mm.”

Arms tensing as they bear his weight, Yondu spreads his thighs and pushes back on the intrusion. Kraglin’s quick to swivel his hand and curl forwards, and the pressure abruptly turns from _good_ to _damn good_. Heck though. If he lets him carry on like this much longer, they’re gonna have to switch pools rather sooner than he’s intended. Yondu’s face is flushed – not that you can tell – and he’s heady from the heat and the steam. From the sound of Kraglin’s breathing, he ain’t faring much better. This is going to be an intense affair for both of them – and Yondu doesn’t plan on finishing off just from having Kraglin’s fingers jammed up his ass.

“Alright – alright,” he grumbles, feigning irritation. Grabs Kraglin by the forearm to guide him out. “If you ain’t gonna stick your cock in me, you could at least lay down and let me sit on it.”

From the eager slop of water over the tub’s curved rim, Kraglin’s not exactly unenthusiastic about that proposal.

The stone forms a natural gradient that cushions Kraglin’s back – if he ignores the protrusion threatening to bust his kidney if he rolls too far to the left, that is. In this position he gets a perfect view as Yondu slings a thigh over him, grabs his slippery prick, and sets the head against the stretched pucker of his asshole.

There’s more scars on his back than there used to be. Kraglin trails a sad finger over them, but doesn’t say a word.

The water shifts and trembles as Yondu sinks himself down. He takes him deep, pausing an inch above the root to steady himself with his palms on Kraglin’s legs. Kraglin can only scrape his nails over the muscle of Yondu’s ass and groan, his dick immersed in his captain’s cool body.

Yondu takes a breath; slides on that last increment. The noise Kraglin makes when he grinds his hips in a circle, water sloshing up his belly, fluctuates between strangled Knowhere-lizard and overheating rocket boots. He makes it his mission to hear it as much as possible. Yondu bounces slow, thighs controlling each smooth descent. Kraglin is impatient, trembling, reddening beneath him. He gives him a smart rap on the knee when he tries to jerk up, then sits on him heavily until he gets the message.

Nope. This one’s on Yondu. Kraglin can lay there and spit profanities at the ceiling all he wants, but Yondu ain’t going any faster unless he _begs_ for it.

Because damn it, this is still _his_. He _owns_ this.

Or rather, they do. This moment, this shared buzz of pleasure in their veins – ain’t no one or nothing that can take this away from them. It seems important, somehow, that he makes Kraglin see that. Even if he can’t put it into words.

“You alright back there?” he asks instead. His balls drag on Kraglin’s thighs as he leans, angling the hard cock inside of him until it scrapes the sensitive frontal wall and swivelling his hips roughly down. Kraglin’s hum of agreement sounds like it’s being pushed through gritted teeth.

Yondu smirks to himself. “That a yes ‘hm’ or a no ‘hm’?” he teases, and is rewarded with a throaty growl. “A fuck-ya-if-you-don’t-go-faster ‘hm’ then.”

“Fuck ya if you don’t go faster _sir_ ,” Kraglin manages. Cheeky brat.

Yondu, of course, moves slower still in retaliation. He rises until just the spongey head’s inside, and he has to work a hand under to hold Kraglin in place while he falls. His thighs are shaking with the strain. But it’s a _good_ hurt, a _good_ burn, almost as good as the twinge in his ass: the one that’s eclipsed by satisfaction as he takes Kraglin as deep as he goes. Yondu pushes into it, squeezing Kraglin’s cock as he hits the nadir of each bounce while his own leaks into his fist. He can sense an orgasm coming. Heat curls in his groin, suffusing out to every extremity when Kraglin nudges his prostate.

Water sloshes and slaps. Waves glance from the slightest movement. The liquid that slops over the pool’s lumpy rim simultaneously drowns out the noises they’re making, and makes them all the more obscene; Yondu finds himself speeding up without having commanded himself to do so. Checking himself, he grips his dick a little tighter and concentrates on grinding steady and low until the only thing that disturbs the surface is a smooth and constant ripple.

Kraglin’s breath leaves him in short gasps. His face must look like he’s been left dangling topsy-turvy for a while, what with the heat of the baths and the prone position – or possibly not, given the amount of blood currently dedicated to matters below-the-belt. Yondu’s tempted to turn so he can look at him. But he’s too far gone to switch things up now. He’ll have to count Kraglin’s blown capillaries later. Preferably after they’ve both come hard enough to paint this pool white.

Endgame in sight, Yondu rocks quickly over the top half of Kraglin’s cock, and those neat ripples swell into tsunamis. Hands clutch his hips from behind. Kraglin adds whatever strength he’s got left into helping him move, and this time Yondu doesn’t swat him away.

When they finish, it’s within seconds of each other, Yondu just a little before. He goes boneless for a moment; Kraglin pushes up, torso colliding with his back. The Hraxian pulls Yondu’s legs together, tilting his body so he can fit in his final juddering thrusts. They’re uneven and hard, deep enough to make Yondu’s feet twitch. Then he feels Kraglin’s belly tense and his dick pulse, and holds onto the hands clasping his chest while he’s filled.

They’re left panting, dripping, trickles of perspiration filling the gaps where they haven’t been splashed. Kraglin’s cock’s soft and sticky inside him but he doesn’t move to pull out just yet. His forearms loop under Yondu’s ribcage; his forehead is tucked into the side of his neck, knotty nose-bridge digging in.

“You okay?” he asks. Dumb question. Yondu musters the energy to roll his eyes. Kraglin nods to himself. “Yeah. You’re okay.”

And that’s that.

***

”How many folks d’you think have fucked in that pool before us?” muses Yondu as they’re lounging on the edge of the rocky outcrop, drying under the morning sun. They’ve got pants on, but only to stop Peter bitching. The rock under their backs is smooth and hard. When the light catches it, it gleams like silver. Yondu feels pleasantly saturated with water and photons alike; this moon’s atmosphere is thin, and Kraglin’s started to go pink on the belly.

“Dunno sir,” his first mate says, scratching the tender patch. “Not sure I want to.”

Yondu yawns. “If I get the clap I’m docking your cut.”

“What’s ‘the clap’?” asks Peter from where he’s perched a few metres away, hands around his knees and watching the encroaching dawn. Yondu and Kraglin share a look.

“Think it’s time we were off, don’t you?” Yondu says. Kraglin nods. “Right. Go find that precious coat of yours, boy. And mine. And his.”

“I just asked a _question_ ,” Peter complains. But he shuts up and scampers to, when he’s met with twin glares.

Yondu makes the most of his final minute of doing absolutely nothing, stretching his arms over his head and rubbing on the rock to work an itch from his lower back. Kraglin rubs sleep-grit from the corners of his eyes, and goes to find an unsullied pool to splash his face in. By the time Peter’s stomped back, half-drowned under his armful of fusty leathers – hey, they’ve been given a good steam-clean; won’t need washing for another year – they’re both marginally more awake and ready to face the day.

“Ready?” Yondu asks with one eyebrow raised, rolling his shirt down and swinging on his coat. Not that they’d be able to stay any longer if he wasn’t. They’ve dithered too long already; he told Horuz to expect ‘em at first light, heaven knows what kind of disasters his crew will have blundered into by midday.

Kraglin grins, and for a brief second everything’s alright in the galaxy. “Lead the way, captain,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **DON’T HAVE SEX IN MYSTERIOUS HOTPOOLS. Nasty germs alert. If you absolutely have to, at least find some non-soluble lube, or else that shit is going to hurt. Love, your friendly neighbourhood sex-ed worker.**
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> **I hope you all enjoyed reading this fic as much as I’ve enjoyed writing it! I have such a soft spot for grotty old space pirate romance. And for dumb little Terran kids. Gah.**
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> **Please comment/review; it honestly makes my day, even if you just drop a word. And if you’ve got anything Ravagers or Peter-related that you’d like to see (smut, gen, family, humour, world-building, you name it!) I’m over on tumblr at ask-a-ravager and write-like-an-american. I’m always hungry for prompts, so drop me a line.**
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**Author's Note:**

> **Please drop me a comment if you've read and enjoyed - or if you spot any mistakes! They mean a lot to me, and I appreciate every one.**


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